


Attraction Reaction

by hanwritessolo



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-06-06 03:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15185855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanwritessolo/pseuds/hanwritessolo
Summary: The eternal night is dark and full of daemons, and Helena is already bored with trouble. She is fully convinced that nothing will ever excite her out of this daemon-hunting business, until an Imperial woman sweeps her off her feet—in the most literal sense of the word.





	1. The Woman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElenaHana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElenaHana/gifts).



> This was something I wrote around Feb, which only goes to show that I'm really shit at actually posting stuff the same time I wrote it so here we are. This is for the insanely talented Elena and her OC/alter-ego Helena, which they have drawn [here!](http://hanatsuki89.tumblr.com/post/169760676843/i-said-i-was-going-to-do-a-makeover-of-my-old-ff)

Helena had been growing tired of the boring hunts.

And by boring hunts, she meant the bland, run-of-the-mill errands Monica always seemed to ask out of her these days, like delivering medical supplies from Lestallum to Galdin Quay, or as mundane as manually checking the ration inventory back at Meldacio HQ. Sure, Helena thrived on the Hunter’s life; it had been her bread and butter, more so ever since the world had been enveloped by darkness and scourged by daemons, and having been seasoned and tempered with her experience in the battlefield, her hands itched for action. Her immaculately crafted double-bladed sword begged for danger…

Okay, maybe not really something like a life-threatening kind of danger. Helena may have been deemed by her colleagues as the  _Hunters’ Resident Badass_ (Dave coined the nickname for her, much to her chagrin), but she still preferred the company of solitude and a couple rounds of drinks than actively brew some kind of trouble—she only saved a cupful of her menace in the battlefield, sword in hand. And it didn’t exactly help with their impression when Helena sported her fine-tuned cheekbones, her jet-black undercut, and the perpetual scowl plastered on her face in her natural grit and confidence. Helena supposed one could blame genetics. Or the awful circumstances of this bitch of a planet.

Needless to say, her strange notoriety aside, Helena only wanted the kind of danger that was enough to spark the excitement out of her, something that would spurn her loins to turn the monotonous hunting routines into something worth waking up to. Or at the very least, just a little something worth taking two shots of expensive espresso to because by the fucking stars, coffee has started to become a luxury that people couldn’t even afford to enjoy in these times of darkness. 

She only needed something—a small sign, a blind blessing, a miniscule of a miracle, who  _knew_ at this point—to preserve the remaining ounce of motivation in this lightless world.

So, when Helena came across a mysterious silver-haired woman who swept her off her feet (literally enough, because the said woman wielded a lance and made a sweeping gesture that had Helena land on her ass) on one of her most mundane hunts to date (funnily enough, because she was only harvesting sweet Leiden potatoes,  _of all things),_ she didn’t exactly know what was coming for her. All she knew when she got back up her feet was that The Woman fell right out of heaven, skewered a mutated garula who happened to be charging right at Helena as she was busily taking her harvesting errand to heart, and saved her scrawny ass in the process.

When The Woman left with nothing but a casual “see you around” and a smile that could seduce the bones of the dead to walk back the surface of the earth, that moment marked two important things in Helena’s life.

One: It was a first that a stranger was able to save Helena from an imminent danger.

And two: It was a first that Helena felt strong feelings of admiration, one that was mixed with the need to smother the person with cuddles and the want to projectile-vomit words of praise, but her confidence dissipated and all she was able to muster as a reply was a regrettable  _“Damn, girl”_  as The Woman was whisked away by an Imperial airship and flew towards the horizon.

It may have been Helena’s strangest moment in her life, but one thing could be deduced from that occurrence.

For the love of all things merciful, the brave and gritty Helena couldn’t handle having a simple crush to save her secretly bashful life.

 

* * *

 

“Rough day harvesting crops?”

Over the bar counter, Monica slid a mug of beer and a bowl of potato crisps across Helena. As opposed to Monica who beamed her solemn smile in her perpetually amiable face, Helena wore the same scowling expression that could send a pack of chocobos running at the far end of Lucis. (Which would obviously break her heart because Helena loves chocobos. A lot.)

Helena groaned and tried to smile. “No, it’s just… nothing.”

Monica curiously quirked a perfectly threaded eyebrow. “That nothing better be really  _nothing_ , Helena.”

“Well…” Helena trailed off. She tried to assess what would be more difficult to explain to Monica. Helena knew she would earn more than just a raised eyebrow from Monica if she shared the fact that she was almost trampled by a garula and was saved by some mysterious Imperial lady…

_The Woman._

Compared to her unmatched talent in hand-to-hand combat, it was no secret that Helena had lacked the skill for generating nicknames, least of all, trying to catch the name of someone who _saved her life._

_I could have asked for her name and I stood there like an idiot,_ she brutally entertained the regrettably chastising thought. All the while, Helena just couldn’t quite erase The Woman’s face out of her head. Helena may not possess an immaculate twenty-twenty vision, but she saw how beautiful The Woman was. So aesthetically pleasing in her red-and-black armor, The Woman was a holy matrimony of silver hair and green eyes and a smile so lethal that Helena could vow to look at her face until death do them part.

With that almost embarrassing fascination in mind, Helena could already hear the rapidfire questions she would have to dodge from Monica. Explaining herself would probably take a lot of painful hours, so she figured it best to escape from all that trouble.

And what better way to do it than to do all the probing herself.

Carefully, Helena asked, “Have you… do you know anyone who travels around Lucis in an Imperial airship?”

Leaning on the bar counter, Monica studied her briefly. “As of late, Cor does. But that’s because a couple of mercenaries and ex-Imperial officers have been helping him out in the relief efforts.”

“Ex-Imperial officers?”

“Yes. Even the ex-Imperial Commodore has extended her help.”

_Her?_

“Don’t think we ever crossed paths,” Helena’s tone was as noncommittal as it was going to get, but something in her guts told her that this conversation was going in a positive direction.

Incredulously, Monica asked, “Seriously? You haven’t met ex-Imperial Commodore Aranea Highwind?”

_Huh. Aranea Highwind._

Helena shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Huh. Interesting.” Monica leaned even closer that Helena could smell the whiff of her floral perfume. “You seem really intrigued.”

Helena shrugged, “Maybe.”

Behind Helena, the bar door swung open and the chimes rang gently to welcome another guest. But she didn’t pay any mind as she took a swig from her bottle of beer.

“Oh there you have it,” Monica addressed the newcomer. And then she sneakily turned to Helena. “Speak of the devil. Now you can finally meet her.”

Startled and shook out of her wits, Helena turned, “Her? Wait, what—“

A sultry voice behind her ordered, “Two bottles of beer, please. Another one for this sweet potato right here.”

Her eyes widened. She almost choked on her drink.

It was  _The Woman._

And did she just call Helena  _sweet potato?_

Helena blurted out, “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re the fella who’s harvesting sweet potatoes earlier, right? Sorry I had to just run and leave. My name’s Aranea, by the way. And you are…”

She swallowed. “Yes. Hi. I’m Helena.” She turned to face Monica behind the counter, who suspiciously narrowed her eyes at her, one that Helena easily translated into words that meant,  _You have got a lot of explaining to do._  Helena only responded with a winced shrug.

Helena hurriedly returned to face Aranea. “Thanks, by the way. For, the—um, you know—that thing—“

“Don’t mention it,” Aranea smiled at her. And then a pause. A very strange pause that Helena could feel her chest performing ridiculous somersaults, struggling to follow through the conversation she did not want to lose.

Good thing the ever perceptive Monica was skilled at the Department of Rescuing Conversations. “So what brings you here today?” Monica asked Aranea, who now took the seat beside Helena.

Taking the bottle of beer Monica slid over to her side of the table, Aranea answered, “Cor recommended me this place. Says I could find someone here who could show me around Cleigne and Lestallum, someone’s who could give me a good grasp on the lay of the land.”

Monica and Helena exchanged a very meaningful look and a brief wordless discussion.

“Well, your timing’s impeccable,” Monica hummed, offering the both of them with a bright, knowing smile. “Helena here’s the person you need.”

 


	2. The Huntress

 

The following day, the first thing that Helena felt when she woke up was an odd sense of dread.

First thing she was certain of was that the sunless morning was _not_ the cause of it. The humble space of her flat was all idle and gray; inside, a ticking clock, a whirring fan, and a creaking floorboard from her upstairs neighbor played a mechanical cacophony of tunes. From outside, a distant chatter of a bustling street and Lestallum’s 24/7 outpost lights leaked through the wooden slats of her window. Was it already noon? As weeks passed, it was getting increasingly difficult to gauge the time of day. It was only a matter of time before people forget what a clear morning sky looked like.

Groggily, Helena reached out for her phone somewhere on her bedside table. On her lock screen, she was promptly greeted by the time that beamed eleven-thirty a.m. and two unread messages:

Marshal 9:22 AM meet me at monica’s asap.

Marshal 9:22 AM will discuss detail re: aranea’s request.

For the record, if the texts came from either Monica or Dustin or Dave, she would have simply shrugged this off and went back to sleep. But this was Cor Leonis, leader of the Crownsguard, the man, the myth, and the living legend who rarely texted anyone except times of urgency, happened to contact her _two fucking hours ago._

That was enough for Helena to shock the remaining sleep out of her system. She quickly thumbed her response:

11:31 AM will be right over in 10 mins.

In her extreme state of panic, Helena skipped the idea of breakfast, briefly showered, got dressed in her Hunter’s garb, and bolted right out of the door. She sprinted past an ocean of refugees in their makeshift shelters and camps, past the marketplace, past the border gate, and out to the main thoroughfare where Hunters and Glaives were mostly stationed.

And in her extreme state of panic, her dread finally materialized; Helena knew that the said dread had nothing to do with her upcoming survey mission around Cleigne, but had everything to do with the person she was assigned to accompany in this little excursion.

_Why must it be her, of all people?_

The _her_ in question was, of course, none other than the ex-Imperial Commodore herself.

It may not seem like it, but for the first time in a while, Helena was actually thrilled with the prospect of getting to work with Aranea, even if it was a simple survey assignment. On most days, Helena found this sort of mission extremely dull and uneventful, despite the growing number of daemons prowling as of late; she knew Cleigne’s landscape like the back of her hand; she could easily navigate these parts with her eyes closed, trace her way back to her shabby flat in Lestallum with one hand and slaughter any form of danger with the other.

But having to go through this mission with Aranea meant something else for Helena. Not because she wanted to see her again (it was only _one-fourth_ of the reason, she had argued adamantly with herself), but because she felt compelled to return the favor for saving her life. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. And also, Helena wanted to prove that she was not as helpless as she was when Aranea found her close enough to be trampled by a wild mutated garula. (This, she had argued adamantly again to herself, was only another _one-fourth_ of the reason for her anticipation.)

However, Helena’s unusual enthusiasm warred greatly with her usual habit of overthinking things. She swallowed it all down by the time she spotted Monica and Cor in the middle of the town where Surgate’s Beanmine used to be, hovering over a map of sorts. From charts to radars to a mini-kitchen, Monica’s outpost was brimming with activity and all kinds of things that did not seem to belong together.

“Good day, _sweet potato.”_ Monica teased by way of greeting. Helena narrowed her eyes at Monica, who only seemed to be enjoying her reaction.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Helena said, still trying to catch her breath, completely ignoring Monica’s cheeky grin. She turned to Cor. “Um, am I in trouble?”

“It’s fine, Helena.” Cor answered with a kind smile. “And no, you’re not in trouble. What makes you think that?”

Helena shrugged. “Because I’m late?”

Monica was polite enough to bite back her laughter. But Cor laughed a real, amused laughter. Frankly, Helena could not decide if she should be pleased or disoriented or both when Cor’s laughter directly contrasted the stern features of his face: sharp blue eyes, mouth pursed to eternal concentration. But then, Cor assured, “No, it’s alright—we have enough time to run over things. Here.”

Before Helena could ask where Aranea was, Cor began to explain as he traced along the Cleigne region on the map. Apparently, the survey mission was more tedious than Helena thought it would be. The objective was this: help Aranea to scout for meteor shard deposits scattered all over the region. Based on the intel that Cor had gathered so far, the Myrlwood was a good place to start.

“Aranea’s still attending to some business in Leide. Says she’ll meet up with you there,” Cor fished out his phone and sent Aranea’s contact details to Helena. She felt her phone buzz at the back pocket of her jeans. “You should be able to reach her through that number. Once you’re ready, give Dave a holler and he’ll drive you to the location.”

“Got it,” Helena acknowledged.

“Oh and also: be mindful of the daemons,” Cor warned. “The Glaives have reported that they’re getting stronger these past few days.”

“Right.”

And with that, Cor bid his farewell and took off with a couple of Glaives in tow.

When Cor was already out of earshot, Monica started, “Skipped your breakfast, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did,” Helena answered. “I almost shit my pants when I saw Cor’s text.”

“Well, he has that effect on people,” Monica laughed. “Here,” she grabbed something over a counter teeming with a variety of tin cans and offered Helena a packed sandwich and a bottle of Ebony, “eat something. A long journey’s waiting for you.”

Helena cheekily raised an eyebrow. “How do I know if this is safe enough to eat?”

“Helena, I may not be as skilled as Ignis, but that’s a good sandwich. Also, if I wanted to poison you, I would’ve done so a long time ago,” Monica deadpanned, “but you and I both know that you’ll still have enough time to kill me before the poison even sets in so, what’s the point?”

“You’re right. You know me so awfully well.” While Monica gave her an exasperated smile, Helena only grinned at her.

Suddenly, a booming voice arrived to join them. “Hey there, ladies!”

Helena turned around. There was only one person in town covered in a bird tattoo, sporting a daunting scar on his face, and tall enough to intimidate any Glaive or Hunter.

“What’s up, Gladio?” Helena waved at him as he approached both her and Monica.

“Hey,” Gladio clapped Helena’s back as a greeting. Which honestly felt like a shove because he was a giant of a human. “The question is, what’s up with _you?_ Heard the news that you’re accompanying the ex-Commodore.”

“Why’s that a big deal?” Helena defensively asked back. She felt a violent rush of blood in her face.

“Then how come you’re blushing?” Gladio grinned, and the glint in his eyes was full of mischief. Having known Gladio for quite some time now, Helena knew the calibre of shitstorm her good friend was capable of.

And being sensible as she was, Helena wisely dodged the subject altogether and said, with much snark and sass as she could muster: “Don’t you have any important stuff to do?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Helena watched as Gladio handed something to Monica, and in return, Monica gave Gladio a map and a long list of what appeared to be hunts. “Now that my business is over and done with, let’s talk about you. So, Aranea, huh.”

Helena’s face remained neutral. “What about her?”

“Nothing,” Gladio flashed a toothy smile. “Look, if I may offer some unsolicited advice: ask her to hang out with you.”

Helena folded her arms over her chest and shot Gladio a challenging glare. “And why should I?”

“Because Monica here mentioned that you like her—“

Helena sneered, “Monica!”

Monica shrugged, but the look on her face reflected a triumphant amusement rather than a remorseful defeat. “I may or may not have accidentally slipped that information over breakfast earlier with Gladio and Cor—“

“Yeah,” Gladio egged on. “And Cid. And Prompto.”

As if to raise a white flag of surrender, Helena just sighed a world-weary sigh. “Unbelievable. It’s not even like _that—_ seriously, remind me why I’m friends with all of you?”

“Because you’re a tough candy with a soft marshmallow center, Helena, and you love us even if you don’t show it on your face,” Gladio beamed as he looped his beefy arm around her. “Again, like I said, unsolicited advice: ask her if she would like to hangout for a couple of drinks.”

Helena scoffed, untangling herself from Gladio. “I don’t think you’re qualified to offer that advice when _you_ haven’t even asked Ignis out on a date yet.”

Gladio looked like he was punched in the gut. Meanwhile, Monica snickered, “Gladiolus, just in case you’re wondering, it’s one-zero in favor of Helena.”

Helena couldn’t help but pull a smug smile at her successful round of revenge. Unsurprisingly, Gladio swiftly recovered from that blow and said, “Well played. But this isn’t about me, this is about you—there’s no harm in asking her to hangout—“

“Whatever—anyway gotta go!” Helena immediately ended the conversation while hurriedly grabbing the sandwich and bottle of Ebony. Walking away from Gladio and Monica, she waved and added, “See you guys around—“

“Yeah, yeah—and you go get yer girl!” Gladio shamelessly roared behind her, and Helena raised her middle finger as she waltzed away to find Dave.

 

* * *

 

Helena found Aranea accompanied by other two Imperial officers, waiting by the mouth of Myrlwood Forest. Or at least, what used to be a forest. The rapidly deteriorating state of the world reduced what once was a sanctuary of abundant flora and fauna to a graveyard of withered trees and dead grass. The sky was just as dead, gray and dark and looming.

Right behind Aranea was her hauntingly red Imperial airship docked between boulders. It was too red that it stood out like a bloody sore thumb against the bleak sky.

“I thought you’d never arrive,” Aranea waved at Helena. “This here is Biggs—” she jerked a thumb to the bearded man on her right wearing the white military trench coat— “and Wedge—” then to the hooded man on her left wearing the black military trench coat— “my trusted subordinates. Gentlemen, meet Helena.”

Helena nodded at them. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Biggs raised a hand in salute. “Heard a lot of good things about you from the Marshal.”

“Yeah,” Wedge agreed. “Says you’re one of the best hunters around. Certainly a high praise coming from a man of his caliber.”

“That’s… uh, thanks… I guess?” Helena shrugged, her mouth twitching into a smile. If anything, Helena was proud and happy in that moment—knowing Cor had been recognizing her talents was definitely an honor. She was just not programmed to accept compliments accordingly without her brain going haywire.

“Alright, lads,” Aranea stepped aside and instructed her companions, “You both stay here while Helena and I venture inside the woods.”

“Sure, Lady A.” Biggs and Wedge said at the same time.

Helena ushered Aranea through a narrow crevice and into the barren forest.

Everywhere was dry and brown. With Helena leading the way, they threaded along dead trees and waded through a sea of wilted plants.  The air swelled with dust and dirt, and there was no sound of the usual birdsong nor the chorus of crickets. They were only accompanied by the echo of snapping twigs and crackling leaves brought upon by their footsteps as they traversed deeper into the wilderness.

“This must’ve been a beautiful place,” Aranea said out of the blue, trailing closely behind Helena.

“Yeah,” Helena answered. “It was.” She could still recall the forest’s former glory like it was yesterday. The thought of it only made her wistful.

Aranea and Helena reached the farther end where walls of rocks carved a passage leading to a faint sound of gurgling water. Suddenly, Aranea asked, “So what’s your story?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how’d you end up as a hunter?” Aranea clarified. “Colour me curious, but Biggs and Wedge are right—earning the Marshal’s respect is a difficult feat. And I’ve only been with him for weeks.”

“Uh, I’ve helped him out a couple of times,” Helena answered as they trudged along a muddy path. “And there’s really nothing much to say except I’m born in Lestallum and raised around here. The hunting business is the most lucrative option, so here I am, at your service.” Finally, Helena stopped in her tracks and turned to Aranea. “You don’t happen to ask that just because of what happened _that_ time, right?”

“You mean that time when you were completely zoned out while a garula was charging right behind you?” Aranea hummed with a bright, teasing smirk.

Helena hoped she was not blushing. She muttered, “Thanks for the friendly reminder, but yes.”

“Nope, definitely not about that.” Aranea patted Helena on her shoulder. “That happens to the rest of us.”

Helena only nodded, and they continued their walk in silence.

The silence happened to be short-lived when they arrived at the ridge overlooking a clearing where the royal tomb stood at the other side.

Aranea sidled up to Helena and asked, “So, is it usually hot in here or is it just me?”

“Definitely you.”

“What?”

“What?” Helena repeated. She grinded to a slow halt and faced Aranea, who was eyeing her curiously. A simmering pause. _Ah, damn it._ Realizing what she had said, Helena quickly backpedaled, “No, I mean the temperature. Like, you’re the one who only feels hot. But it’s not that I’m saying you’re not hot, too, but I mean—”

A wide grin grew across Aranea’s face. “Yeah, I get it.”

“Okay.” Helena forced herself to smile, which more or less appeared like a wince.

_But now that Aranea mentioned it…_

Helena dragged her attention away from her outrageous embarrassment and turned to focus on their surroundings. She stepped closer to the edge and surveyed the area. The pools have dried up, the once lush canopy of foliage were already replaced by cobwebs of leafless branches, huge tree trunks shriveled to a crisp. There seemed to be nothing amiss in the sorry state that the Myrlwood Forest was in, except…

It really was, indeed, very hot. The kind of hot that should only be reserved to deepest pits of Rock of Ravatogh.

Aranea walked over to Helena. “Is there something wrong?”

Helena turned to her and said, “It is as you say… it isn’t usually warm around these parts—shit, look out!”

All at once, Helena pushed Aranea out of the way, swung and plunged her blade right through the chest of a goblin engulfed in fire that somehow appeared into thin air just behind Aranea. As Helena dissolved the daemon into a puddle of sludge with a single strike, hordes of goblins materialized in front of them.

It was painfully noticeable how these daemons were different from the regular ones Helena had encountered before—she was absolutely certain goblins were not covered in flames.

Quick on their feet, both Helena and Aranea unsheathed and wielded their weapons, mercilessly charging at every daemon careening in their direction. Helena made a pinwheel out of her double-bladed sword, slicing and cutting enemies left and right with such frightening speed and precision. Meanwhile, behind her, Aranea swept her lance around, a graceful yet lethal pirouette granting the daemons within her proximity a swift death.

“Not too shabby,” Aranea yelled, driving her lance straight to a goblin’s fiery head.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Helena remarked as she cut the last of the wretched goblins to a bloody half, spraying muck all over the place.

With all of the monsters defeated, Helena finally had the moment to catch her breath. Aranea dusted herself off and said, “I’m impressed. We make a pretty kickass team.”

Heaving a sigh and wiping the dirt off her face, Helena exhaled, “Yeah—I guess so.”

“And you have a pretty solid technique.”

“Sure.”

“Not to mention, an interesting weapon of choice, too.”

“Right.”

“What say you and I hangout sometime?”

“Yeah—wait, what?”

Helena stiffened with the sudden invitation that she inadvertently agreed to. Aranea smiled and insisted, “Since we’ll be working together from here on out, I’d say we break the ice with a couple of drinks. Besides, I’m staying in Lestallum for a couple of days. I could use some decent company aside from Biggs and Wedge.” Aranea crossed her arms, giving Helena a quite an expectant look. “So what do you say?”

Helena swallowed. She could not decide if she should be happy or worried or nervous. Or everything all at once. Nodding along, she said, “Sure. No problem at all.”

“Perfect,” Aranea breezily sauntered past Helena and cheekily added, “This girl doesn’t hustle after working hours. Now let’s head back, sweet potato.”

 


	3. The Chemistry

As months flew by, Helena and Aranea were together almost all the time, fighting monsters by the rapidly dying day and drinking away their worries by the already endless night.

Their supposedly one time partnership took an unprecedented turn when Aranea insisted on having Helena to take part on all Cleigne-related business that she had to attend to. Which was, unfortunately, every single five-star daemon hunt that Aranea took upon herself. Helena amiably obliged; she, too, was up for the challenge. Besides, it thrilled her to be fighting alongside Aranea; she had never synced so well with someone else before. However, there were occasions in which Helena could not help but wonder why the ex-Commodore had chosen _her_ out of all the more formidable and capable hunters out there. Better yet, why she had chosen anyone at all when it was perfectly clear she could manage danger all on her own. Once, Aranea slaughtered hordes of hobgoblins with one swivel of her lance, and witnessing that feat was something that left Helena both severely impressed and terrified.

Still, Helena enjoyed Aranea’s company, and she with hers. It was almost too inevitable for them to become so inseparable; apart from their hunting expeditions—which had become more inconveniently frequent all thanks to the sudden spike of daemons—their trips to Monica’s had inadvertently grown to be a steady post-beast slaying ritual. They could talk for hours on end. Their conversations drifted from one subject to the next, and Helena didn’t mind if they ended up talking about their families or wherever the state of the world was headed. Helena had learned more of Aranea’s inclinations, too. As it turned out, she had a soft spot for cats; she claimed herself to be a decent chef—she loved experimenting on new recipes and trying them out in her spare time; she enthused on watching old films; she relished reading fantasy books, so much so that she had read every single _Harry Potter_ book _thrice._ (“Look, McGonagall is the baddest bitch in the series, apart from Molly Weasley. Also, Luna Lovegood. Okay, maybe all of the girls in the series. But I’d pay McGonagall millions of gil for her to mentor me. And she could even turn into a cat, can you fucking believe that woman?” Aranea had blabbered in her drunken stupor, defending all her favourite fictional characters with a passion. Helena only watched her in bewildered amusement.)

Though the more time Helena spent with Aranea, the more she was convinced that she was the kind of person that was painfully impossible to hate. And Helena wanted to hate Aranea. Or at least, _try_ to hate her for some bizarre reason. It was illogical, sure, but she really wasn’t successful at the effort. She couldn’t even be annoyed at her. Aranea was too kind and generous to be trifled with, despite her no-nonsense approach and tough as nails attitude.

But in all honesty, Helena knew deep down that it wasn’t Aranea that she hated.

Helena only hated the discomfort she felt whenever Aranea was around, or how her heart hopscotched into a mess whenever she smiled at her direction. It was a treacherous feeling, an uncharted emotion she did not know how to navigate. And of all things Helena hated, she hated the vague sense of dread, the blind feeling of not knowing.

Someone was tapping on her shoulder. “How long will you watch her dance with someone else?”

All at once, Helena was out of her deep rumination and back into the fairy lights that spilled all over Monica’s rustic bar. The bass from the stereo thrummed with some sappy pop music as more people flocked their way to the already populated dance floor. She turned to see Gladio beside her, his eyes far ahead, his hands equipped with a bottle of beer and a cigarette on the other. Following the direction of his gaze, she finally understood what he was referring to.

Somewhere in the crowd, Aranea was dancing with the journalist Dino. Discomfort coiled at the pit of her stomach. How long had she been staring at her from afar like some creeper?

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Helena said sharply. She swiped her own bottle of beer from the bar counter and took a swig.

“It seems to me like you do,” Gladio teased. He nudged her shoulder. “You two obviously have a thing going on.”

Helena scoffed, as if what Gladio had said was made out of pure insult. “Nothing’s going on, trust me.”

“Oh really? So you don’t like Aranea at all?”

“Nope.”

"You swear on your life."

"No, I swear on  _your_ life."

Gladio laughed. “So you guys are really just friends, huh.”

“Yup.”

“Great. So you wouldn’t mind if I ask her out?”

Helena stiffened at the question. _Date anyone but her,_ she immediately thought, and she felt annoyed at herself. Why the fuck did she feel so unreasonably selfish and territorial over Aranea, anyway?

It took an ounce of willpower for her to respond to Gladio. “Yeah, sure, whatever.”

Gladio stared at her, examining every detail of her face. Then, he barked a boisterous laughter. “Good gods, the look on your face says enough.” He clapped her back that Helena almost lost her balance. Sometimes, Gladio had to be reminded that he was a giant compared to the rest of them. “I’m only kidding. Can’t exactly date your girl.”

The way Gladio said _your girl_ made Helena feel strangely happy—which only amplified her unreasonable and ghostly vexation. She took another swig, hoping the alcohol could drown this gnawing feeling. Just then, she caught a glimpse of a silver ring on his left hand, something she had not seen before...

Helena almost spat out her beer. “Holy shit. Are you and Ignis—”

“Engaged to be married? Yup.” Gladio beamed. “That’s because I followed your advice months ago, when you told me to be true to my feelings. I guess, maybe it’s about time you follow your own advice?”

For a moment, Helena said nothing. She knew Gladio was right. This was what she truly appreciated with him being one of her closest friends: his heartfelt frankness. He was never one to hold any reservations when he called her out on things such as these, and for that, she was grateful.

“Well, I’ll try,” Helena said, after a thoughtful pause. “Anyway, congratulations to you, big guy.” She raised her bottle, and he clinked it with his for a toast.

“Thanks—but now, I gotta go.” Gladio quickly patted her on the shoulder. She caught him casting a furtive glance over her shoulder. “Your girl’s approaching.”  

Helena made a face. “Wait, what—”

“Finally found you.” Aranea sidled up beside her. Helena turned to Gladio, only to find that he had already joined Prompto and Monica on one of the booths. “C’mon, let’s dance.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t—”

Helena’s protests withered at the tip of her tongue when Aranea took her hand and dragged her toward the middle of the dance floor. Aranea placed Helena’s hands around her waist, while she rested hers around her neck. Helena could feel her chest tighten as Aranea guided her body to the rhythm, with the music drifting into a soulful, syrupy tune.

_Give your heart to charity_  
_‘Cause the rest of you_  
_The best of you_  
_Only belongs to me_

“So,” Aranea started, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “What were you guys talking back there?”

Helena pursed her lips and shrugged. “Nothing, really.”

“Okay,” Aranea said. “How about we play truth or dare?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am serious.” She laughed. Her lips twisted into her usual mischievous smirk. Helena found it difficult not to stare at her face, those magnetic green eyes; she could feel herself tripping in her shoes by just being in this proximity with her. “Truth or dare.”

Helena considered her for a moment. She swallowed a breath, then said: “Truth.”

“What do you really think of me?” Aranea asked.

Helena could feel the heat rising to her cheeks. “I think… you’re amazing.” There were a lot of other things she wanted to say, but she decided not to. Because if she could, she would have listed all the superlatives to describe Aranea; the word _amazing_ fell criminally short to describe what she truly thought of her.

“Is that all?” Aranea was smiling at her, as if she was still waiting for her to say more.

Helena exhaled. “Um, yeah.”

A moment of wordlessness lingered as they swayed to the music. The guitar riffs were getting sonically tender, warmer, demanding to be felt.

_If I was born as a blackthorn tree_  
_I wanna be felled by you_  
_Held by you_  
_Fuel the pyre of your enemies_

“Okay, still your turn,” Aranea said, shattering their silence. The smile on her face had not eased to fade.

"That's unfair." Helena sighed. "Do we really have to do this?"

"C'mon, what do you have to lose?" Aranea grinned. “So. Truth or dare?"

“Dare.”

"Is that your final answer?"

"Yes."

“Okay. I dare you to kiss me.”

Helena felt her heart had raced over the speed limit, then grinding at a screeching halt. Aranea was looking at her, waiting for her to make the move.

And so she did. This time, Helena gave no more room for her inhibitions. So when she brought their lips together, it was neither sparks nor magic; it was electricity and a great sorcery. Perhaps, more than that. Perhaps, she was exaggerating. But that didn’t matter. Because when Helena kissed her, and Aranea kissed her back, again and again and again, it was fire in her lungs, a gasoline that doused their friendship into something so chemical, a feeling so exhilarating that she wanted to keep this—she wanted to keep _her—_ for the rest of her days.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song in this last chapter is Hozier's _NFWMB._ And I believe this part is best accompanied with Hana's [art](http://hanatsuki89.tumblr.com/post/177246509168/when-youre-stressed-and-you-need-motivation-to) of both Aranea and her OC Helena. <3


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